by Abigail Keam
I made many more sales until the crowd began to thin out. Seeing that the sun was nearly overhead, I called Jake on the cell phone, which he immediately answered. “Can you start packing up for me?” I asked. “I need to move around. My muscles are stiffening up.”
Less than a minute later, he emerged from the crowd loaded with bags of local, fresh food. “We’re gonna eat good this week!” he claimed with relish. I oohed and ahhed at each item he pulled from the bags to show me. Fresh-picked asparagus, sweet strawberries, free-range eggs, delicate lettuce greens, several kinds of goat’s cheese, fresh baked bread, humanely harvested whole chickens. I wouldn’t buy meat from anyone unless the animals were humanely dispatched. I wished restaurants would do the same. It was one of my pet peeves – no pun intended.
As I began to move off, he said, “Stay where I can see you.”
Weaving carefully through the crowd, I made it to Irene’s booth, plopping down in her extra chair. I called Jake and told him where I was; waving so he could see me. Irene wasn’t there but Jefferson Davis, her husband was. “Hey Jeff,” I said, fishing out a soda pop from their ice chest.
He tipped his broad-rimmed hat. “Like your new ’do, Miss Jo.”
“It is all Irene’s doing.”
“So I heard,” he said, handing a customer a wrapper filled with spring flowers. “Thank ya kindly now. Come back now, hear.” He swiveled his chair towards me. “She said you wanted to ask me some questions. Shoot.”
“What did you think of Jamie?”
Jeff lifted his hat and scratched his head of graying hair, giving him time to reflect. “I was fond of him. After his daddy died, I took him fishing a lot. A baseball game now and then.”
“Did you like him?”
“Yes. He was a good boy. If he had growed, he would have been a fair-minded man.”
“Did Irene tell you that I found raunchy magazines under his mattress? I’m not talking Playboy, but real hardcore stuff. There was also a torn condom wrapper under his bed.”
Jeff’s creased face reddened. “No, she didn’t, and if it was anybody else telling me this, I would call them a liar to their face. I sure didn’t give him that stuff. Don’t hold with it. I hope you didn’t think that I would give a young boy such trash.”
“I was just wondering if he talked to you about sex or girls – anything that can help me.”
“We talked about school, fishing and future plans. This was a boy who didn’t cuss, didn’t talk trash. He was a serious person. Very concerned about his mother.”
“Why?”
“’Cause she was working herself into an early grave. Jeez, Josiah, you’re getting my feathers rustled.”
“I know these are irritating questions, but they’ve got to be asked,” I replied calmly. “Here’s the last one. I heard a rumor that Sarah was having financial problems, but she tells me everything was fine.”
“I think she is doing okay. If she was having money trouble, she didn’t tell Irene or me. We sure would have helped her out.”
I motioned for Jefferson Davis to pull me out of the chair. He obliged and stood me on my wobbly legs.
“I hope you can put this to rest for Irene’s sake. She hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since Jamie died.”
“She says his spirit is restless.”
“Second sight runs in her people, but I wish she’d let this go. It’s upsetting.”
I gave Jeff a hug. “I will do what I can.” He gave me several bundles of day lilies and waved off the money I offered. I happily inhaled their mild fragrance. I noticed several city honeybees trying to gather pollen from Irene’s flowers. There must be a city hive nearby as bees have a territory of two miles but they like to stay close to home if they can. The thought that someone might have a hive on their rooftop was pleasing.
On the way back I ran into Morgan Mayfield, the owner of Sawyier’s Vineyard.
“Hey, baby cakes,” he said teasingly. “Folks said you looked like Quasimodo, but you look decent for an old gal who’s been banged up a bit.”
“I look damn smashing, Morgan,” I rejoined.
“And that is after being smashed,” countered Morgan.
I lifted my hair to show him my surgical scars. Then I lifted my dress to show him the huge scar that ran up my left leg. Pulling the hearing aid off, I let Morgan try it on.
“That’s nothing,” bragged Morgan, handing back the hearing aid. “Look at this. Tractor turned over on me.” He rolled up his shirtsleeve and showed me a nasty jagged scar that ran the length of his forearm. “And look at this,” he pulled at his shirttail, revealing a surgery scar on his lower abdomen. “Appendicitis. I’ve got another one but I’d have to pull off my pants to show you.”
“Oh, please do,” I teased. “Got any tattoos?”
“I’ll show you my tattoos, if you show me yours,” he grinned good-naturedly.
“I’ll have to get some first. Hey Morgan, I’ve got something serious to ask. You know anything about Sarah Dunne or the Silver Creek Vineyard?”
Morgan scratched his head. “They make good wine. All the grapes are Kentucky grown grapes, not grape juice imported in from California. I can’t stand it when local wineries do that. Sarah makes a merlot that I think is first class.”
“So Silver Creek has a good reputation.”
“I haven’t heard anything negative about them. Sarah is known for being honest, paying her bills on time. No fights with other wineries.”
“Not even the Golden Sun Vineyard?”
“That stuff about the first commercial winery is just business. It’s not personal. Beside I heard Peterson is going out of his way to help Sarah with that river tour he’s having this summer. Wish I had thought of that. Great idea.”
“Well, enough about them. How are you doing?”
“Life couldn’t be better, Josiah. Sawyier’s is doing great. I’m proud of the wines we are making. Here – let me get you some before you take off.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. Don’t be so bossy, Miss Hossy.” He handed me several bottles of Sawyier’s Cabernet Sauvignon and Riesling wines. Giving me a big hug, Morgan invited me to hear him sing next week at the winery before he returned to his booth helping to pack up the few bottles of wine left.
Returning to my own booth site, I found the car packed and ready to go. “How much money did I make?” I asked Jake.
“You made the sum total of $624.00.”
Pursing my lips while making a mental calculation of the bills I needed to pay, I replied, “Not too shabby for the first Saturday back, but it won’t make me rich. Sales are going to have to pick up if I am going to be solvent this year.” I scratched my neck. “Well, I’ll think about that tomorrow.” I sat in my chair and watched Jake finish packing up in the Prius, which was not an ideal car for this kind of work. I pined for my rusted, beat-up van, which now took up space in one of the barns. After Jake got me settled in the car, I figured I had enough energy for a meal, so I directed Jake to Ted’s house.
We had a delightful late lunch and spirited conversation about politics. Ted’s wife loved Jake, even though they came from opposite ends of the political spectrum with Jake surprisingly being very conservative. While his politics were not my taste, I was proud of the way he debated Ted’s wife point by point as she was well known for being very informed on current events and Washington shenanigans. But before I became too exhausted, Jake gave them our thank yous and good byes.
On the way out, the wife gave me two biographies on Kentucky women she had finished reading – Laura Clay and Jenny Wiley. I loved reading biographies, so I was pleased and discontented at the same time. There was no point in telling her I had trouble seeing print now unless it was large. I was hesitant in telling people what was busted. It tended to make them queasy. Perhaps I could talk Franklin into reading them to me.
But she was not happy when Jake deposited a box full of books on Kafka on her living room floor. “Why would you
get someone fourteen books on Kafka?” she asked her husband. “What kind of a joke is that to play on someone who is sick?”
“I thought it was amusing,” Ted replied, “but I can see now that I was wrong.” His shoulders slumped in defeat but when she turned her head, he winked at me. Ted had the marital policy that he could be right or he could be happy.
On the way home, I pointed out interesting features like older homes, regaling Jake with their significance. He liked hearing about the local history, or at least, he pretended to enjoy it.
We turned into the driveway. It wasn’t until we saw the flashing lights of the police cars surrounding the tobacco barn that we knew there had been trouble. I saw Detective Goetz leaning against a car writing in his notebook. Jake parked the car and jumped out. I followed suit. Spying Shaneika sitting on a bale of hay, I went over to her. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Sobbing into a towel, she could only point to the barn.
“Not Comanche!” I sputtered. Spinning around, I attempted to make my way inside the barn.
Detective Goetz blocked my way. “You don’t want to see this, Josiah. Take my word.”
“Get out of my way,” I demanded. He reluctantly stepped aside. I walked into a storm of commotion. Comanche was hysterical in his stall, but alive. Neighing, Comanche kicked and bucked while several hands from Lady Elsmere’s farm tried to calm him down so they could lead him out. I looked about, wondering what was making the stallion so crazy. Then I saw it. “Oh, merciful god,” I whispered.
Someone had taken one of Comanche’s companion goats, slit her throat and hung her upside down near the horse’s stall. Blood was streaked on the walls as though it had been collected and thrown.
Feeling my knees start to buckle, I cried out. Goetz, who had followed, caught me. “Here, sit here,” he said, placing me gently on a bale of hay. “That’s a pretty awful sight.”
I could now smell the blood staining the ground. There were splashes of blood on the stalls, on the horse’s equipment, on the hay bales. “Who could do such a thing?” I asked, tears threatening to spill.
Goetz handed me his handkerchief. “You need to ask? People are shits. That’s all.”
“Do you think it’s O’nan?”
“That’s what we’re working on. But Ms. Todd has made plenty of enemies on her own. Could be anyone.” He pulled up a clean bale of hay next to me. “I need to ask you some questions.” He waited until I nodded. “Where have you been today?”
I had to think for a minute. My thoughts were rattled. “I was at the Farmers’ Market. Just got home.”
“What time did you leave the farm?”
“Jake and I left the house at 5 a.m.”
Goetz wrote that down in his worn tattered notebook. “Did you notice anything unusual?”
“The farm was quiet. We would have heard Comanche if the goat had been killed at that time.” I grabbed at his sleeve. “We had problems with bees last week. Someone ran over some of my bees.”
“Matt has already informed me.” Goetz grew quiet as Shaneika’s vet strode past us. We watched him finally calm the grieving horse and slowly lead him outside to a waiting van. Everyone froze still as the distraught Thoroughbred trotted by. The surviving nanny goat followed. There was blood smeared on her back.
Her companion still hung from the rafters from its hooves. Even from where I was sitting there were welts and cuts on the dead goat, confirming that the animal had been tortured before its throat was slit. I smelled singed hair. “Was that animal burned?” I asked, hoping Goetz would say no.
“Looks like a cigarette.”
“Please cut that pitiful animal down,” I requested.
“We need to do some more work in here. Let’s get you out of here,” Goetz said, pulling me to my feet. “I want you to know that this is being given high priority.” We walked outside together.
Matt and Jake were huddled around Shaneika. I went over to her. “I’m so sorry.”
The vet closed the gate on the horse van with a sharp clanging. Shaneika gave the driver a signal and the van turned around. “I am going to board Comanche at another farm. Don’t know if I’m coming back,” she said curtly.
Before I could respond, she rose and hopped into the van as it was making its way down the gravel road. Matt, Jake and I stared stupidly at each other.
It was finally Jake who came to action in the guilty silence. “Matt, I think you better come to the big house. I need to deposit Boss Lady there. Then you and I need to search the farm with the police. We know where to look.”
“Sure thing,” agreed Matt. He followed us to the Butterfly in his car. Jake did a quick search of the house, noting that Baby was asleep in his bed. He brought in the food purchased from the Farmers’ Market and asked me to put it up. Then he and Matt left, each with a walkie-talkie and a stun baton. Jake took his gun off safety.
I put the food up as requested and then wandered into my bedroom with the walkie-talkie clutched in my hand. Baby was still asleep. “Hey Baby,” I said. “Could use your company now.” He didn’t respond. I poked him with my toe. No response.
“That’s odd,” I muttered. I gave Baby a harder shove with my foot. No response again. I shrugged. He was really taking a snooze.
Opening the closet door, I checked on the kittens. The barn cat and her babies were sleeping soundly. The mother cat opened her eyes for a moment and then returned to slumber land as I filled her food bowl.
“You were right to come,” I told her. “You’re safe here.” She yawned in response to my prattle. Closing the closet door, I sat in the vanity chair taking off my shoes and the special hose I wore on my left leg. I was tugging on the hose when I notice something funny about the Haitian paintings, but couldn’t discern what. I kept staring until finally realizing what it was.
A sudden spike of fear caused me to tremble and I could barely make myself turn around to glance down the hallway. Seeing no one there, I lunged for the bedroom door and breathed a sigh of relief when the sound of the lock snapped into place. Grabbing the walkie-talkie on the vanity, I pressed the talk button. While peeking outside my patio door, I whispered, “Jake. Matt. Get back here quick and bring that vet with you. Baby’s been drugged!”
Forty-five minutes later, the vet left the house and Baby was drowsily drinking out of my toilet bowl. I sat on the vanity chair.
Jake sat on my bed, looking glum. “I didn’t see today coming. After the bees, I should have, but escalations of this type are not so fast and furious.” He rubbed his chin. “I should have seen it coming.”
“None of us did.”
“I’m the professional. I am supposed to notice patterns. This is way out of hand.” Jake shook his head. “What made you suspect Baby was drugged?”
“The paintings on the wall,” I pointed.
Matt stood in the doorway with a tray of iced tea. I greedily accepted a glass. Matt stared at the wall and pointed. “They’ve been switched. I should know as I helped Josiah put them up.”
“He must have drugged Baby’s outdoor water bowl or thrown a piece of drugged meat onto the property this morning when Baby was out doing his business. It’s the only way he could have gotten past this mastiff in the house. He sure wanted to leave you a message,” spoke Jake.
“And what’s the message?” I asked.
Jake’s left eye twitched just a tad before answering. “That he can get to you any time in your own home.”
“Why not kill Baby like the goat?”
“Maybe the perp just ran out of time?” suggested Matt, running his hand through his dark hair. “Because the Saturday tour was due. And the tour doesn’t go in the barn, but drives past it in a sealed bus. They wouldn’t have heard the horse throwing a ruckus.”
“Shaneika puts Comanche in the barn every night either by herself or she gets someone from Lady Elsmere’s farm, but the help always lets the horse out in the morning because Shaneika is in town for work . . .”
“Except on the weeke
nds, when she drives out here,” interjected Jake.
“Why was Comanche still in the barn?” I asked.
“Shaneika overslept and came out later,” answered Matt. “She found Comanche hysterical.”
“Someone would have to have known our routines to escape detection. Are you sure the hermit is not responsible for this?” I asked.
“I really doubt it. We did a psychological profile on him plus none of his tests showed any biological reason for this type of aggressive behavior. This was the work of someone who can maneuver undetected and work fast. This was not sloppy. It was calculated to bring the maximum amount of fear. That is what this is all about.”
“Well, he did a good job because I’m scared,” remarked Matt.
“I’m mad,” I snorted. “That poor goat was the sweetest animal. She deserved better.”
“I’ve called a locksmith to change all your locks this afternoon,” stated Jake. “But who has keys to the house?”
I tried to think. It wasn’t easy as my brain felt addled. “Ummmh, Matt and Shaneika have a key. You. And Lady Elsmere, in case I lose my key.”
“Where does she keep the key?” asked Jake.
“Charles keeps it in a kitchen drawer.”
“Anyone else?”
I shook my head.
“Charles got a beef with you?” Jake asked.
“Heavens no. Charles would never do anything like this nor anyone in his family. Only a very few people know this, but when Lady Elsmere dies, Charles gets the house with an endowment. It is not in his interest to stir up trouble.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Matt said. “Charles gets the farm?”
“He gets the farm, house and an eight million endowment for upkeep on the farm as long as the property is kept intact. If Charles dies, it goes to his daughters. The rest of June’s money goes to various charities in the Bluegrass. Charles and a senior member of her bank will manage her philanthropic money, both of whom will get substantial management fees.”
“How did he arrange that sweet deal?” asked Jake, looking amused. He glanced at Matt who shook his head in disbelief.
